Fain would I shake thee off, but weak am I Thy strong solicitations to withstand. Plenty of work lies ready to my hand, Which rests irresolute, and lets it lie. How can I work, when that seductive sky Smiles through the window, beautiful and bland, And seems to half entreat and half command My presence out of doors beneath its eye? Will not the air be fresh, the water blue, The smell of beanfields, blowing to the shore, Better than these poor drooping purchased flowers? Good-bye, dull books! Hot room, good-bye to you! And think it strange if I return before The sea grows purple in the evening hours.